


Lost Art Of Conversation

by hoteltrasher



Category: Quadrophenia - The Who, The Who (Band), Tommy - The Who (Album)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Love, Developing Friendships, Drug Use, First Meetings, Hotels, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Other, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Understanding, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23863777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoteltrasher/pseuds/hoteltrasher
Summary: Stories of a lonely writer and an eccentric boy
Relationships: Keith Moon/Pete Townshend
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

In the far corner of a boisterous bar, rough hands hastily worked their way over creased sheets of paper. Scribbling with rage and passion, never giving the writing tool a rest for breath, the same way the brain wasn't granted any. The man who the mystifying hands belonged to, simply had to write down what was locked in his head for so long, begging for an escape.

Loops and curls appeared on the no longer white paper, and soon full sentences filled the pages. Frantic movements completed the scene that it was lacking before. For the slim, slender man it was an out of body experience. It was the first time in months since his mind cleared with each word he added. Mainly that was the reason for his continuation. 

For minds that write, words alone are the limit.

He sat far from the noise, just far enough not to be distracted. The conversation of those joined together, didn't travel all the way to his ears, but hesitantly came to a halt at the foot of his table, just seconds before the man could hear. The conversation seemed to feel the presence of thought, that it stopped its travel altogether. Unsure of direction it started flowing upwards until it blended together with the grey puffs of smoke and laughter. 

The writer had chosen the one single table that held a flickering candle, which illuminated his face beautifully. Not similar to the rest of the bar crawlers from whom the harsh light reflected on their faces, but covered only by a simplistic natural orange glow that shone over him. His characteristics showed exceptionally. He resembled a baroque painting - emotional and dramatic in light and shadow. Caravaggio surely would grasp this opportunity had he been around to witness it. Even if it wasn’t his usual setting, depicting violent struggles, torture, and death. 

Then, suddenly the writer stopped. 

In an instant and without contemplation. The words didn't fall short, but the writer was done. The pages complete. A few seconds he balanced the pencil between his fingers, before tucking it behind his ear. At last he let himself rest.

He sat back in the beer-stenched chair and let out a deep breath. An earnest smile found way on his lips, one he did not let the world see all too often. It was then, and only then, that he felt an incredible urge to share his words. But with a certain audience alone. What he wanted to share, wasn’t for everyone. Still, they were his words. Something he could call his own. But that wasn't the full purpose of them. He felt content now, but the words needed to fill him with something bigger. 

Happiness. 

It reminded him of words from an adventures traveller:

'Happiness is only real once shared.' 

He understood more than anyone what he meant. A feeling of guilt overtook him, as he wished he was the one having written those memorable words. 

The tender man noticed his scribblings took quite some time to decipher, his handwritten resembled one of a child's, yet for the patient one it was precisely what they needed. In between reading back exactly what it was he had written, he nodded his head in approval and sipped from his sharp brandy. 

Unnoticed by the man himself, his foot tapped along to the steady rhythm of a beating drum playing on the radio. A catchy sound, one that occasionally played in places such as these.

What he did notice on the other hand, was when a different off-beat tapping noise ticked, pulling him out of the bubble he had created for himself. There was no particular rhythm to the pace and the only constant about it, was the loudness, which, for obvious reasons, got on his nerves. The noise sounded from behind the writer. Outside in the dark.

Annoyed that his bubble had been burst, he turned furiously until he met two wide playful eyes. Somewhat surprised he adjusted his emotion, with a kind one. A curious boy with a grin smiled back at him, happy to have found a face turned his way. His tapping finger left the window it was ticking against, and found place next to his other fingers, forming a waving gesture. It was the gleeful look on his face that made it a delightful sight, yet there was something more to him. The writer was intrigued; couldn’t find the strength to look away, and so he merely watched. 

The boy wore a green, cheap looking blouse, that in actuality, seemed to wear him instead of the other way around. Its collar fell lousy around his neck in a manner that looked more comfortable than classy. Over it draped a beige jacket imprinted with pastel coloured stars embroidered with little detail, as though the maker lost the enthusiasm it started with. The image should have been sad, had it not been for the boy wearing it so gloriously. He presented himself jubilant, unafraid, perhaps even untouchable. 

The boy started swaying his head, left to right. His hair danced around on his forehead, hiding his bushy eyebrows. Bystanders turned their heads, seemingly annoying by one behaving different than was the norm. His small feet danced around on the pavement, tapping lightly against the wobbly stones. He noticed the looks people gave him, as one often does, and started dancing only more peculiarly. At that, the writer had to laugh. 

After his individual dance, he pointed at the other man like it was his turn to act with such outrage. The writer took the pencil from behind his ear and scratched his head with the back. He contemplated acting out, to keep the attention of the energetic boy on the other side of the glass. The attention of him, whose company he secretly enjoyed plenty. 

It was helpful his mind was imaginative and creative enough to come up with a certain kind of misbehaviour. If there were rules, there was the sense of wrongdoing in the breach of them. Looking around at the objects he could work with, he noticed his glass of brandy, that stood abandoned in the middle of the table. With a sly smile he held up his finger, as if to say ‘watch me’.

Raising his glass to his lips, the man took a large gulp of the alcoholic beverage, but he did not swallow it. Instead he expanded his cheeks and let his head tip backwards. For a moment shortly he hesitated, normally he wasn’t one to act out just for the sake of fun, but he acknowledged the little harm it could do, and continued. After a deep inwards breath he spewed out the liquid in the air and tried catching the fountain that fell downwards, as soon as it had reached its highest point. To no ones surprise most of it spilled on the floor, leaving a puddle of wasted brandy seeping through the creaks of the wooden floor. 

Through the window a roaring laugh sounded. The joke was appreciated. With little more confidence the writer nodded his direction as if to say, ‘your turn’.

Immediately the boy jumped in the air, like he had waited for this moment all of his short lived life. He even clapped his hands together once, for good measure. The enthusiasm with which he travelled was beyond the writer, and he could only welcome the warm feeling, accompanied by the awareness of acceptance filling his chest. With the rise and fall of his breath, up and down again, a momentary lapse of comfort satisfied him. How did he became so lucky to be seated here?

The dear boy, back in his element, found his prey. An old man using his umbrella as a walking cane, shivered through the night, presumably on his way home. He came right out of Ealing Broadway Station as many others that night. Unnoticed by the old man, was the jumpy big eyed boy, who walked directly behind him. He imitated his way of walking, but instead of using an umbrella, he used, a much shorter, branch that had fallen of a tree. He seemed to be made of rubber, as he bend down, replicating the aged mans slow movements.  
The sight was comedy to the writer, who had never seen anything remotely as funny, but the boy was not done. Each and every person that walked on the street, he had to imitate. Caring little if they noticed his copying movements. 

The two went on and on for what seemed hours, both not getting enough of the fun and ridicule. They overpowered each other with each act, and cared not one bit about the consequences. The beautiful boy found imitation his strong suit and went as far as impersonating Hitler at a certain time, which resulted in a hand-marked imprint on his left cheek.

The things they did that evening appeared strange to the public, yet perfectly normal to them. Well, most of things. When at last they found themselves tired of the jokes and worn-out by laughing, the boy sighed. Content. His wide eyes who darted around inexhaustible seemed to never find peace within him. Left, right up and down they went, always looking for jokes and trouble. It was what he knew and what he was good at. Making people laugh was a life goal he never let slip. Even now they turned. Searching, seeking, exploring. 

Until suddenly they landed on the words the writer had written. They were too far away for him to read, but he was curiously drawn towards them. As if a power within him led him to the pages on the table. So far, yet only separated by the thin frame of glass. 

The writer, oblivious to his staring, was in his own world. In his bubble again. Thinking over all that had happened, inwardly smiling at the memories that were made. He leaned on his hand as he stared. His head weighed down and he had to focus to let his eyes stay open. The conversation from the bar drawn out, as most attendees had left. The evening came to an end.

Then, ticking sounded.

The exact same tapping noise he heard earlier, pricking through his bubble once more. Again without rhythm, but filled with urgency. 

Peaceful now, his eyes turned to look at the boy. His gaze was filled with question, an expression he had not seen on his face before. His brow furrowed, eyes confused. Now that he had the writers attention, he pointed at something on the table.

In an instant the writer remembered his words. How could he have forgotten! Immediately the same urge to share what was his returned. What before was a question, was now obvious. He knew without doubt who to share his words with.

The slim man bend down, rummaging through his bag until his fingers found what they were looking for. A black marker. With it, the writer rose from his seat so that he stood right in front of the curious boy. He gestured at him to take a step back, so that he could instantly read his message. With a pop the cap broke free from the marker. On the window, at eyeside of the boy, the writer wrote merely one word, and one word alone.

‘T O M M Y’


	2. Chapter 2

I'd gladly lose me to find you  
I'd gladly give up all I had  
To find you I'd suffer anything and be glad

.

They were having breakfast. Sipping jus d’orange from fancy decorated glasses in the dining area of some lonesome hotel. The mahogany clock on the striped wall ticked tiredly, trying to keep itself awake with each passing second. 

No one should be up at this hour. 

The writers’ circadian rhythm was thoroughly wrecked since he met the little man outside of the bar. It was already two months ago since they first looked in each others eyes through stained glass. The memory of a first meeting is never lost, especially not one so vivid and original.

Original

There were no better words to describe him other than that word. Often originality is what people look for. Not only in themselves, but more so in others. There is something about originality that makes you yearn for more, crave the feeling of it, the touch. The unpredictability will excite and captivate you. Paired with it is the awareness of being a part of something authentic that is rare and memorable. 

People like to be seen as something special in front of their peers. 

Why, the writer wondered. Why should we care for what others think of us? To seem cool or accepted was not what he wanted, and it was absolutely not something he tried to gain, when he was hanging out with his new found friend. 

Yet he feared that perhaps unconsciously, he behaved in the exact same manner as people who thrive on being looked up to. What different was he to them, who wanted to be seen as important? Still, he didn’t think that entirely to be the case, what he felt about the man, was mere curiosity and understanding. Emotions, he thought wryly, what good are they.

For the time being, however, the writer was glad he found the personality trade in someone, that many were after. He acknowledged the boy his originality and authenticity, and prayed to wander in the same mazes of thought which the boy had opened to him.

But, quickly as he had found it, it was gone. 

The two lost each other that same night. The writer wrecked a week's work looking for the little man who wasn't there no more. Gone. In the days that followed, he returned to the bar where they had first met. 

Without luck. The evenings and nights were spend there, looking out the window until the place closed and he had to return the following night. During the day he searched the city, but London was unkind to him and the two did not reunite. 

\--------------- 

In the restaurant of the hotel, the clocks’ arrow wavered, contemplating to continue as it hesitantly passed three o’clock, then quietly ticked on ready for another round. Passing time endlessly was exhausting.

On the seventh day the writer sat alone with his despair in his usual chair, in the corner of the bar. By now his hope was minimal, but still he tried, not willing to give the search of closure up yet. His chair he had turned towards the window, so that he wouldn’t have to crane his neck as much. The owner of the bar counted him a local, remembering his drink of choice, and occasionally gifted him one on the house. Quietly, the barman observed from a distance, appreciating the poetry that was written in the forgotten corners of the dark. The thin man was swirling his brandy around in his glass, welcoming its golden colour. He felt bored by the road that was in front of him. Empty. The same as it ever was, so he only stared in his glass that held nothing more than alcohol, soon to be consumed by him. Behind him a stir of movement. Slowly a figure emerged. One he himself didn’t notice, because of the distraction of the drink in his hand, and the quiet cobbled pavement laying lifeless ahead of him.

’If ye look any deeper into your glass, you’ll find me at the other end’of it.’ As quickly as the words left the man’s mouth, the writer smiled. He didn’t have to turn around to know he found what he was looking for. 

Finally. 

Keith was the sods name. Rather curious it was, how a name could suit a face, yet it did and it suited him greatly. The writer tried remembering his gestures, his ways and familiarities. It was good to observe, to learn about one, so you could acknowledge them. But there were just so many characteristics and sides to him, that it was much like unravelling a circle, there simply was no beginning or end to it. Keith found joy in calling the writer Tommy instead of his real name. At first it was unintentional, as he thought it really was his name, (after all, he wrote it on the window), but after learning the story of the deaf, dumb and blind boy, he continued the name calling just to piss him of. 

‘It’s Pete, P -E -T -E, Pete. What’s there not to understand?’ Keiths eyes, beneath their melancholy brows, looked up at him wistfully. His huge round glossy eyes had a mischief look in them, as per usual. It was the look of a child that was portrayed in his irises. Always up to something. It were those eyes that often betrayed themselves of the actions that would soon follow. 

‘Tell me.. Tommy, is there..-‘ He got cut short by the agitated writer. 

‘O for Pete’s sake!’

\--------------- 

In the hotel Pete took another sip of his cold drink, while he listened to his friend.

‘I’m telling you, sleeping ain’t good for nothin’, you don’t need it - nobody does, and I certainly don’t. Where’s the bloody enjoyment in sleep?’ Keith rambled as the writer yawned ironically. 

’I won’t ‘ave it.’ He downed his champagne that apparently came with the jus d’orange and croissant. 

The slender man had stopped asking questions of which he knew wouldn’t be answered, questions like where the extended breakfast buffet came from, how it was possible the bar was unattended but opened, and how Keith was sitting here opposite from him, enjoying his time. 

‘I disagree, because you see sleep is were the ideas come from. You know, you need to give your brain time to rest in order to create.’ 

Besides, sleep is one of the most enjoyable moments of the day, he thought. Staying in his own head during the day was long enough for him. Pete always answered by looking at things from a logical point of view, he was a man of rationality. Adverse to the other. Therefor, the two men of strong beliefs were set on opposite sides of the fence. As often as they were, they contented themselves with bickering. 

Keith shook his head strenuously. ‘No, no alcohol is my muse for inspiration.’ 

Irresponsible as he was, he reached to fill his glass once more, but found the bottle empty in his hands. It seemed he drank it all on his one. 

‘Besides, you can’t drink all day if you don’t start in the morning.’ He quoted. 

Eventually the two left the restaurant, finished their breakfast and found themselves upstairs in Keiths room. Pete didn’t quite understand Keiths home situation as he resided at any place for a short period of time. Presumably, by the way he acted, he got kicked out of certain places after a while. His current room choice was of as much extravagance as his personality. Golden frameworks hung on the walls, within them pictures of celebrities whose names did not matter to the writer. All of it was a show. A façade. 

Pete let his tall body rest against the cushions of various colours and textures and finally let his bones relax. His shoes he had kicked of by the door as he not dared to make anything dirty by his footprints. Keith cared less, to him it was just a temporary room, another space to stay in.

The atmosphere had changed when they entered the room. Strange how one can always notice a change in the air, he could feel the awful silence. Pete sat up and trained his eyes on his friend in the corner. His eyes instantly confirmed the eery feeling he felt. Something was wrong. Keith seemed lost. His usually so friendly presence was gone, as he stared lifeless ahead. His whole posture dropped as a balloon that deflated over time, the air sucked out.

'What's wrong?' The concerned man asked.

His words came out blatant and dry in the silent room. Pete patiently waited for him to answer, but none came. Not even a single movement indicated he had heard the writers plead for an explanation. To care for him was all he wanted.

'Keith?'

At last his eyes steadied and with hesitance directed themselves on the other man's concerned look. Keith looked tiredly how his friend sat cross-legged on his neatly covered bed. He was grateful he was here with him, glad he didn't have to spend this time alone. 

'Dunno.' He said, gently, and then went on with his own thoughts while he was silent. 

Pete wasn't satisfied with the short answer and pried him to continue. There was nothing yet he could reassure him with, as long as he didn't know what the cause of his sadness was. 

'Come on, talk to me.’

Then with a sigh of dissatisfaction, he fumbled for his pipe and tobacco, and looked about him. ’Really, I don’t know. It's just…’ He gave in. 'Have ye ever felt incomplete? Like, there's a part of you that is empty? A void, if you can call it that. But no matter how you try’n fill it, it'll always be there.'

There it was. Pete felt a pang of hurt and compassion for him, and tried to think of a time in his life where he had perhaps felt the same. The cursed fear of emptiness and the fear of having time to think.

Emptiness was often accompanied by loneliness, and the two only so often left each others side. Loneliness he knew, in and out. Pete had dreaded loneliness with the ache that is despair; but he was not lonely any more.

Loneliness was perhaps easier to comprehend, as it was the feeling of being alone by isolation. Emptiness on the other hand, way more complex, because one can be empty of various things. 

He thought long and hard before speaking the next words with care. 

’Maybe you're just filling it with the wrong things.' 

Keith thought about it, and concluded that the writer was probably right again. For some reason Pete always knew what to say; hitting the nail on its head. What he was immensely grateful for, was the fact he never judged him. He didn’t laugh or turn away. It had taken him some time to open up, as he hadn't done so with anyone else, but it felt good to talk about such things. For a long time he had trouble with expressing his feelings, to a point where he denied he had feelings altogether.

‘Perhaps so, but answer me this, how do I find what is I need to fill it with?’

‘Well, what have you tried that hasn’t worked?’ Pete asked, already knowing half the answer.

Keith flicked the ashes from his cigar, nursing his knee with the other hand. 

‘Well, the drugs ’elp and alcohol for a certain amount of time. But without ‘em, I feel bloody useless. There is just so much rage and aggression in me when I’m sober.’

The writer smiled earnest. 

‘So let it out.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well ... I think Pete is going to regret his words


	3. Chapter 3

Pete knew of the carefree, extraverted attitude the little man had, more than any other did, but after tonight it surely was tilted to a higher level, a level that could only be reached by the most extreme form of violent behaviour. From where Pete was standing it was like watching an explosion go off. The noise it made could be transcribed into music. Loud uncontrolled music perhaps, but music all the same. The first thing that flew through the window was the television that with force shattered on an endless flight downwards. A pause followed. Pete had watched how it was laying dismembered and disembodied outside on the ground. 

First floor. 

Tangled wires tried to hide the lifeless body that was once a screen, sadly it hid little to nothing. Surely the death of a television could be enough to calm some, but by no means was it enough to calm down Keith. He was just warming up. His bottled up emotions turned into lunacy as he gripped the wallpaper next. 

The most frightening of all, was the fact he destroyed everything with a gleeful look on his face. Not a single twitch in his expression exposed him of regret. Keith didn't have any and it almost seemed he had waited all his life for someone to tell him to ‘just let it out'. The writers intensions were not these, to put harm to the hotel, but destruction, in a way, was a form of art so he allowed it. Allowed Keith to expose of his bizarre emotions and allowed himself to watch. Not only because he liked it, but perhaps more out of envy. What the boy had was freedom and Pete liked the taste of it, he yearned for it. It prickled under his skin, leaving him with an itch that needed fulfilment. However much he thought about setting himself free, joining in on the rebellion, he couldn’t. His feet, locked away in their shoes, seemed glued to the floor. He wondered how good it would feel letting down the bars and loosening up the reins occasionally, but for the writer himself he could not find the strength to just let himself be. Tonight it was enough to observe.

Another crash sounded, followed by hysteric laughter and clapping hands. He was really out of it. The smashed up furniture fed his outrage, like fuel to a fire. Even the golden frameworks of which Pete felt weary before, filled him with a strange sense of pity mixed with sorrow as they laid unrecognisable in pieces on the carpet floor. Those silly objects that held no particular meaning to him, should have awaited a more peaceful ending. Sadly they weren’t granted any. 

Keith was a bit like a monkey who was freed from its cage after years of captivity. His hand roamed over the vases that were still intact, lifted it above his head and smashed it on the wall. As water dripped down from now barren walls, he was already on the hunt for his next victim. Not giving himself time to look at the destruction in the way Pete did, who stood next to the king sized bed, at a safe distance.

Not long after the vases had scattered on the walls, people started complaining. Pete wondered why it had taken so long for them to notice, it was after all still midnight, and any sound in the eery hotel sounded much louder in the silence of night. The manager, dressed in his suit, had apparently been sleeping too. His shirt was on backwards and the mob of hair on his head left untamed; defying gravity. Obviously the poor man was dealt the wrong deck of cards and had the awful job of leaving his warm bed to deal with the problem, that in his case, were two maniacs in room number 515. Well, one maniac and a one person audience, who seemed shocked as the man himself. His bewildered expression exposed him of the questions he had, but didn’t dare ask. When his widened eyes fell on the room which was left in smithereens, he broke. He definitely had never before encountered a setting such as this. The man was speechless and grasped for his hair, not knowing what to do. The opening and closing of his mouth resembled a fish on dry land, heaving for air. A comical sight in a serious situation.

Keith however, was not so worried. 

’G’day mate, I’d like to make a complaint about the telly.’ 

The manager was beside himself, with livid face and scarce able to stammer. Until in the end he found the two words his mind was searching so desperately for. 

First he whispered them with a shaky breath. ’Get out.’ Heavy breaths and beads of sweat on his forehead.

Out!’ 

Louder now.

‘OUT, GET OUT!!’ There it was. The manager went as far as physically pushing the pair through the door to lose some of his frustration. Laughing, Keith hopped away from the man.

Slowly but steadily Pete got his legs to move over the red imprinted carpet that was still intact in the hallway. They got out of the way of the furious manager and stood side by side, watching from a safe distance, just as Pete had done earlier with Keith. A few doors in the hall opened and tired eyes appeared, seemingly annoyed by their disrupted beauty sleep. Pete was jealous they at least had slept. 

Then, suddenly, Keith gripped Pete’s hand in his. His hand was warmer than his own and it felt intimate, secure. It was the first time the two held hands and Pete looked into his glossy eyes for explanation. The two clear irises looked of mischief and pure playfulness that it was immediately clear he didn’t mean anything by it. 

‘Run.’ Like two schoolboys they ran through the halls, skipping, jumping and yelling, leaving no guests asleep in their beds. If they couldn’t sleep, so couldn’t others. 

-

‘I think that worked out brilliantly. You’re a genius Petey, I’ve never felt more alive!’ The boy laughed when he was outside. Happily he jumped over the television that laid right next to the entrance of the hotel and made a spin. He raced back to where Pete was standing and placed a sloppy kiss on his cheek. With satisfaction Keith skipped through the dark empty streets, happier than Pete had ever seen him before. High on adrenaline the writer followed suit and ran after him. Over the streets they raced, dodging upcoming cars that now and then appeared. The feeling was better than any drug or any drink, that night they were high on life. Two against the world. When the adrenaline died out however, Pete had trouble keeping up. It didn’t help he had not been able to close a single eye all night. His tired body was catching up with him. 

’Wait, wait up.’ Heaving a breath Pete slumped down. ‘I can’t.’ His breathing stocked, allowing no oxygen to his lungs. ‘Breath.’ 

Within seconds Keith was beside him, dropping to the floor and laying like a starfish on the cold motorway. With a sideway glance he watched his friend struggle to controle his breathing. 

‘Need help?’ Said Keith amusement clear in his voice.

Pete turned to him and inhaled rigidly. 

‘In what possible way can you help me?’ 

His breathing was loud and uncontrolled in the darkness and it seemed to fill up the silent road ahead. Every now and again car lights lit up behind them framing their faces. Pete observed Keiths features each time a car passed by. His eyes shining brightly, reflecting what was mirrored in them and fading out as the light dimmed or rounded a corner. It was beautiful. 

‘You can ‘ave one of me lungs.’ He chipped in, happy with his solution, as he stared confidently in the eyes of his friend. 

Slowly regaining his breathing pattern, the writer frowned. 

’I highly doubt yours’ll do me any good.’ 

He was quite stunned by the fact Keith was breathing normally, without a hint of exhaustion showing. How the man managed was a question to him - surely his drinking marathons couldn’t do his stamina any good. As well as the emotional release of his violent outburst against the innocent hotel room should have tired him somewhat, still he seemed fine. Sometimes the man was a mystery. No, most of times. 

‘Where’re we off to next?’ Asked Keith curious for more adventure and not yet pleased by the fun he had.

‘Next? Hell, the only place I’m going next is my bed. No matter what you say, you won’t convince me otherwise.’

Keith huffed, standing up. ‘Dull.’ He dusted his hands on his pants and for good measure wiped his hair from his face. The bawdiness of humor was over. Pete was tired and longed for sleep, his tender body physically ached for it. Any more fun and he would collapse. If this was what befriending Keith was like, he needed to prepare beforehand. 

‘I’m going home.’ He said, announcing his departure as he copied Keith motions standing up from the ground. Soon the sun would rise again and the night would be forgotten. It felt like ages ago that he had felt the comfort of a mattress under his aching bones. A blanket wouldn’t hurt either. Soft music. Pillows hugging his sore neck. Curtains draped closed. The writer moaned. Longing for it.

‘Yeh.’ Answered Keith somewhat deflated. His body language was opposite from what it had been earlier on. The word that so easily sounded from his friend, stained him and crawled in his mind without escape; home. There wasn’t exactly a place to return to where he was welcome. Most of it was his own fault, even still, a motherly home was out of question. Keith kicked around gravel that laid out in front of his shoes. 

‘You coming?’

Keith frowned. ‘Hm?’ 

‘My place. There’s no way I let you out of sight now I know what damage you can cause to hotel rooms.’ Pete smirked. 

The disbelief was easily detectable from the look of Keiths’ face, but quickly it was replaced by his infamous smile. A heavy weight lifted from his shoulders with the new confirmation his friend wasn’t sick of him yet. That was what he constantly needed, to be confirmed he was good enough to be someones friend. The approval of Pete was of such importance to him. Knowing he wouldn’t just abandon him meant the world. Keith rubbed his hands together, not because he was cold but because he was preparing for a second battle. 

‘I’ll race ya!’ And off he was.

Pete shook his head, glad he had just found out what it felt like to breath like a normal person again, and sighed. 

‘You don’t even bloody know where I live.’ But already was Keith too far to hear him.


End file.
